I arrived early. Finished my cigar. The cottage I needed was at the end of the row. They looked strangely industrial for this part of the world. But the austerity of the grime on the stones was lifted by brightly painted doors and flowers hanging in baskets. I remember that I was nervous. I always am when I have to give something of myself. That kind of nervousness that soon turns to sharpness and gets the job done.
A funny thing. As soon as I entered the cottage and introductions were made, I made it my business to commit everything to memory. To drink in as much of the atmosphere as I could. Distil it into every fibre of my being to take away and use in future.
I made an inventory.
But now, when I call up these things, this spirit that filled the cottage, I discover that apart from the radio seen through the steam coming from the kettle, I can't remember a thing.